Trolley to Yesterday (10 page)

"How... how is he?" asked the professor in a weak quavering voice.

The leader shook his head. "Not good. Not good at all. The poison is a strong one, and I cannot fight it much longer. If your friend is to live, a greater power than ours will be needed."

The professor stared. "For heaven's sake tell me what to do!" he exclaimed vehemently. "Johnny is my dearest friend in all the world, and I don't want him to die."

The leader gazed long and hard at the professor. "You must take him to Constantinople. Near the great Church of the Holy Wisdom is a smaller church that holds the most sacred picture in all Byzantium. It is called the Hodegitria, and its power is much greater than ours. You must press the young man's hand to the Madonna's face in the painting. If he lives till you get him there, the Hodegitria may save him."

The professor thought of the Turkish army that was gathering outside the great walled city. He thought of the Turkish ships that were patrolling the waters near the city's harbors. "How on earth am I going to get into the city?" he exclaimed in despair. "I'd need a Sherman tank, and I'm afraid I didn't bring one with me. Can
you
take us in through one of the gates?"

The leader shook his head gravely. "No. We did great wrong to the city many years ago, and we may not enter it. But we can bring you to the gates and help you to enter." The leader paused and gazed deep into the professor's eyes. "Believe me," he said solemnly, "I would not send you and your friends into danger if there was any other way. But there is not—you must go if your young friend is to live."

 

 

 

CHAPTER TEN

 

 

With the professor and Fergie following behind, the soldiers carried Johnny down the long winding stair that led to the sheltered harbor where the ship lay waiting. It was a calm, starry night without a breath of wind, but the professor knew that would be no problem for these strange, ghostly knights. As soon as everyone was on board, the leader raised his hand imperiously, and the large square sail began to fill. Slowly the ship sailed out through the narrow inlet and into the open sea. As before, Fergie and the professor sat in the stern and Johnny lay in the bow. Except for the man who gripped the tiller and steered the ship, the knights stood grouped around the mast, with their leader in the midst of them. The whole scene was like something out of a King Arthur story, and at another time the professor might have been moved by the beauty of it all. Instead he bit his lip impatiently and kept urging the ship on with silent cries of
Faster, blast you! Faster!
He did not know how long Johnny had to live, and he felt that every second counted. He began to think about Brewster—where on earth was he? He had not been heard from since Mr. Townsend's ship had gotten wrecked near the ruined church. Maybe he had been hovering invisibly and translating for them, but the professor doubted it. The knights probably didn't need help to talk to ordinary mortals. "Oh, well," the professor muttered, "he's probably out there somewhere!"

"I didn't catch that. What did you say?" asked Fergie, who was squatting right next to him on the damp deck of the ship.

"Nothing," said the professor crossly, and he went back to studying the stars.

After a while the professor got tired of sitting, so he hauled himself to his feet and picked his way over to the starboard side of the ship. Clinging to the rail he looked out, and he saw the shadows of walls looming under the starlit sky. The professor had studied maps of Constantinople for a long time, and he knew that the city was built on a piece of land that was roughly triangular in shape. Two sides of the triangle faced the water, and the walls came right down to the sea. The current was swift here, and there was no way that the enemy could land troops outside the sea walls or plant ladders there. The vast army of the Sultan had gathered outside the land walls; they were out there in the darkness somewhere, getting ready to attack the city with all their strength and savagery. Of course—the professor thought gloomily—the Turks may have been here for quite a while. The Time Trolley had screwed up the date of their arrival, and God only knew what day it was. And it wouldn't do any good to ask someone, because the people of 1453 used a calendar that was different from the one in use in the twentieth century. Phooey! thought the professor. Phooey on everything, anyway!

The ship surged on, and the professor heard a dull
boom!
in the distance. The Turks must be firing their great cannon, the one that they would use to batter down the thousand-year-old walls of the city. The shadowy walls loomed closer. In his mind the professor tried to reconstruct the way Constantinople was laid out. If we are trying to reach the church where the painting of the Hodegitria is, we will have to head for... hmm, let me see... for the Gate of the Lighthouse. Yes, that's definitely the one. And sure enough, as he clung to the rail and strained his eyes, the professor saw a wavering blot of orange light in the distance. That would be the light of the Lighthouse, which of course was just a tall stone tower with an iron basket of fire on top. Wood and pitch fed the flames in the basket—this was the best people could do in the days before electricity was invented. The light got closer and closer, and the professor saw a stone breakwater rising from the sea. Behind it was a small harbor, and near the tower that held the flaming light, a wide arch gaped. But the arch was sealed by a stout, iron-bound door, and no doubt there were heavy bars in place on the inside. This was a time of war, and no one, absolutely no one, friend or foe, would be admitted.

Silently the ship glided into the little harbor. It pulled up to the stone breakwater and hovered there, as if held by invisible ropes. The leader of the knights left his place by the mast and walked back to join Fergie and the professor. A halo of gray light hovered about his gray, weatherbeaten face.

"You must leave now," he said quietly. "Follow me up onto the stones."

The professor blinked and stared unbelievingly. "God in heaven, man!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Are you just going to
leave
us here?"

The leader looked offended. "Did I not say that I would get you into the city?" he said. "Be patient, and all will be made clear."

The professor shrugged helplessly and followed the leader to the middle of the ship. There a ribbed wooden ramp had been erected to make it easier to get to the breakwater. Fergie and the professor watched as two knights carried a stretcher with Johnny's still form up the ramp. Then they joined the leader up on the slimy stones. Reaching in under the white surcoat that covered his suit of chain mail, the leader brought out an odd-looking brass object. It looked like this:

 

 

The professor and Fergie stared as the leader held the object up. It glimmered faintly in the starlight.

"This is a Tabergan," he said gravely. "It is good for taking people up into the air and putting them down where they want to be. Simply twist the handle and say, 'Go where I say, Tabergo, Tabergan!' Then tell it where you want to go and twist again. It is extremely reliable and will not fail you."

The professor looked doubtful, but he held out his hand as the leader offered him the brass Tabergan. It felt cold and rather heavy. The professor opened his mouth to thank the leader, but the man turned away abruptly and led his soldiers down the ramp into the ship. Suddenly the professor thought of something that he needed to ask.

"Will this work for only one person?" he called, "or will it take all three of us?"

The leader's voice came drifting up, hollow and disembodied. "If you cling to each other, it will take you all." And with that the ship began to glide away. Soon it was a glimmering smear of gray light on the dark sea.

The professor sighed and stared up at the grim city walls. Then he looked at the object in his hand. He did not feel very confident. In fact, he felt scared and alone, and had to keep fighting down the panic that rose inside him.

"It looks like the spigot on a beer barrel," said Fergie helpfully.

"Yes, doesn't it ever!" muttered the professor gloomily. "Come on, let's see if this doohickey works."

Fergie stooped and grabbed Johnny's limp hand. With his other hand he reached up and gripped the professor's arm. The professor took a deep breath and let it out. He seized the handle of the Tabergan and twisted it.
"Go where I say, Tabergo, Tabergan!"
he intoned, and then he added,
"Take us over the wall!"
Another twist, and the three of them were sailing up into the air and over the stone battlements. It was a sickening feeling, waving your feet at nothing while some force bore you upward, and it reminded the professor of the time he had ridden on a ski lift. They descended, and with a jolt and a bump the three travelers landed in the middle of a rough, cobblestoned street. The professor came down hard on his feet, and a sharp pain shot up to his knees.

"Heavens!" he growled. "Do people
always
get dumped this way?"

"At least we made it," said Fergie with a sour grimace. He looked down at the still figure that lay on the stones near them. "I hope it didn't hurt John too much to land like that."

Both of them knelt and examined their friend. His hair was limp and soaked with sweat, and he seemed to be barely breathing. Johnny's right sleeve had been cut away, and his arm had been bandaged where the sword had cut it. When he touched the arm gently with his fingers, the professor was shocked at how hot it felt. "Come on, Byron!" he said as he pulled himself to his feet. "Let's get to that church while we have time!"

With a muttered prayer of thanks, the professor tucked the Tabergan into a pocket of his robe. The stretcher had not come over the wall with them, so he had to put his hands under Johnny's armpits while Fergie grabbed his legs. Slowly, with a lot of grunting, they lugged their friend along, and the professor began to look around to see if he could get his bearings. They were in a narrow street lined with dark stone houses, and wavering shadows cast by the lighthouse shone on the walls. Racking his brain the professor struggled to remember the layout of this part of the city. The little church where the Hodegitria was kept ought to be up ahead somewhere, not far away. Sure enough, as he turned his head and craned his neck, he saw at the top of the gently rising road a small, whitewashed building with an arched roof. "That has to be it!" he muttered through his teeth, and he shuffled along faster with his load. The two of them slogged on, trying hard not to drop their unconscious friend, until they paused before the door of the church. From the distance came the sullen flat boom of the Sultan's cannon. How long would it be before the city was taken? No time to think about that now—they had to get into the church.

Gently Fergie and the professor laid Johnny down outside the worm-eaten wooden door. Stepping boldly forward the professor seized the twisted wrought-iron ring that hung from the door and shoved. With a strange half-human groan the door swung inward. Fergie and the professor saw the dimly lit interior of the church. Bronze lamps hung from the ceiling and cast a smoky light over the altar at the far end. Propped on the altar was a painting in an elaborately jeweled frame. It showed a mother and her child, and their heads were surrounded by gilded haloes. A smell of incense hung in the air, and before the altar one old woman knelt. Fervently she clasped her hands together as she prayed in words that neither Fergie nor the professor could understand.

For about half a minute the professor and Fergie stared awestruck at the scene. Then, carefully, they lifted Johnny's limp form and carried it through the doorway. They headed straight toward the altar, as the old woman gaped in amazement. The topazes and rubies and opals and carbuncles in the picture's frame twinkled and glimmered under the lamplight. The mother and child stared out eerily at the visitors, and the professor half expected them to speak. Sadly he thought of what would happen to the picture when the Turks took the city: It would be ripped from its frame and hacked into pieces. Fergie and the professor laid Johnny on the altar and raised his right hand till it touched the face of the staring woman. At that moment a wind blew in through the half-open door of the church. The lamps swayed and rattled, and weird leaping shadows flew over the whitewashed walls. The professor and Fergie watched Johnny's face intently. At first nothing happened, but then color flowed back into his pale cheeks, and his eyelids began to flutter. He groaned and looked up at his friends.

"Hey... wha... where are we?" he mumbled thickly. He remembered falling asleep in the ruined church by the seashore.

But this was a different place.

"Thank God!" said the professor as his eyes filled with tears. He heard Fergie sniffling beside him, and he knew that he too was incredibly relieved.

"You are in Constantinople, John," said the professor. "And you have just narrowly escaped death—"

The professor was cut off by a loud noise. The door of the church was flung violently open, and in rushed an elderly monk in a black robe. With him were half a dozen soldiers in gleaming breastplates and bronze helmets. They carried drawn swords and looked angry. The monk was furious, and he marched halfway to the altar before he stopped and began yelling in a strange language. The three travelers had no idea what the monk was saying, but the general meaning was clear. They were up to their necks in trouble again.